


The Greatest Curse

by Skull_Bearer



Category: Pacific Rim (2013), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dragon!Hermann, Dragons, Dwarf!Everyone Else, Gen, Hobbit!Newt, Hobbits, M/M, Mental Health Issues, OCD, Obsession, Panic Attacks, Tolkien AU, neuroatypical dragons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-23
Updated: 2014-10-23
Packaged: 2018-02-22 08:54:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2501897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skull_Bearer/pseuds/Skull_Bearer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>The greatest curse is the unearned hoard- Dragon Proverb</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Greatest Curse

**Author's Note:**

> In which Newt is a Hobbit, Hermann is a dragon, everyone else is a dwarf, and Tolkien is spinning in his grave.
> 
> Thank you to Sherriaisling for beta-reading this hoard of weird.

In the cave, deep beneath the mountain, the dragon dreams.

In his dreams, he is young again, a stripling at only fifty feet in length, all overlarge wings and a tail he often trips over. The wind under his wings as he soars to the stars. He is young, scales small from his final shed, and to him has come every dragon's dream. At only a century old, his hoard rivals that of dragons hundreds of years his elder.

The mountain dwarves had grown rich on the mountain's mithral veins, fat and complacent on trade. They'd sat secure in the knowledge that they were too important to face attack, happy in the knowledge that they could wreck any nearby economy by calling in loans.

But the young dragon had no need for such things, pen and paper were nothing but dried lambskin and old feathers in the face of his claws and teeth and thick, choking flame. By the time the dwarves had realized what was happening, it was too late. He had been too clever for them; digging his way under their foundations and filling their underground halls with toxic, choking smoke. They had fled as much to reach breathable air as to escape the dragon prowling their halls.

Then, it had been too late, their great defenses were his now. The impenetrable walls and stone gates and secret paths were at his command. The walls had echoed with his bellowing, disbelieving laughter as he had scoured every path, every room to gather up the dwarves' fabled treasure. Sitting atop it and marveling that it was _his_ , all his. Him, Həməngɒtli:b. He had the dream of dragons everywhere. The perfect hoard.

He'd rolled in the riches, the coins and gemstones and ornate goblets and jewellery and crowns and treasure uncounted and buried himself in it and laughed and laughed and laughed.

Then he had started to count his riches. Over and over until every time he was certain of their number! So much! The eldest of his race did not have as much, and he, small, scorned, reviled, had outdone them all.

His hoard. The dreams of the young. The warning of the eldest wyrms. _Beware the unearned hoard_. He had laughed at them then, those rich, flabby wyrms on their pathetic hoard while _he_ had more than they could dream!

That first night he had dreamed of thieves, dwarves come to the reclaim the treasure that had been theirs but was his! His, now, forever. He'd woken and had started counting again; assuring himself it was there, it was all still there.

And the joy had turned sour in his gullet.

Həməngɒtli:b wakes with his claws sifting through the coins, his tail brushing over the piles of gold and silver, his wings embracing and measuring and his mind quickly ticking off the numbers- _245,982 coins of gold. 345,453 coins of silver. 238 gemstones of diamond. 359 gemstones of emerald-_

He wants to stop. He tries to stop, tear his mind away from the numbers ticking relentlessly down and close his eyes and _go back to sleep_ but the fear claws up for his gut, colder than his fire. He tries to press it down and his body starts to shake, coins flick and skitter over the stones and his great bulk dislodges and every sound becomes the footsteps of thieves- they are coming to steal his treasure! They have already taken it- will steal it all from under him unless he catches them- unless he makes sure it is all here- is certain- not a doubt in mind-

Though part of him is all but weeping for rest. Həməngɒtli:b opens his weary eyes and begins to count again, over and over, until he can finally, _finally_ be _sure._

 

* * *

 

He used to dream of flying. He used to dream of spreading his wings and soaring, higher than all, among the stars until he could hear them whisper in the crystal cold night, learn the spells only given to those who are brave enough to soar on the coldest nights- to the impossible heights-

He used to dream.

Now, the nightmares stalk his mind. The thieves that come in skulking shadows and steal away his treasure, leaving him lost and shivering in the loneliness of the cavern. The dwarves that tunnel up from below and make off with his riches, laughing deep underground as he wanders lost and speechless with the loss. The elder wyrm that cracks the halls open and fights him, beats him, mocks him as he cowers and begs as the elder makes off with his hoard-

Always the hoard. Always the coins, the gemstones, the treasures. He counts them in his sleep and wakes to continue. It's there; he _knows_ it's all there. There is no way into this place that he does not know of, and he has been in darkness so long he can see the ants build their nests in the walls, hear the mice scurry entire hallways away. He would _know_ -

But the fear is always there now, it grips his belly and twists his entrails until he screams and would do anything- even count again- if it means it would _stop_ -

It has been so long since he has seen the sky. He had been flying when he came to this place, flying to build up his wings and gain the strength to make the flight to the stars. He had seen the dwarves and their treasures and he had thought- the dream of all dragons-

The curse of the eldest.

He closes his eyes and for a moment, the thought comes to trade the chill of the gold and the silence of the halls for the cold and silence of the high sky, where the air is so thin you can see for miles, and the stars so close you can almost hear them whisper-

And the fear comes like the kick of a swallowed horse, and Həməngɒtli:b curls up on himself, trying to push it away, to breathe through it and let it pass-

He cannot, the fear is too great, the curse too powerful, his body cracks like a whip and he cries out from it, claws sinking into the gold, the jewels, trying to be sure- he cannot _count_ fast enough, his eyes blur in terror and he sinks his teeth into his own tail in a frenzy of fear.

The pain grounds him, the pungent taste of his own blood fills his mouth and for a moment he can breathe, settle himself in the right way and start to count, carefully, leaving nothing out. His hoard. His great, impossible hoard.

The terror starts to loosen its grip as he makes his way through the coins to the gemstones, slowly working loose like a rope falling slack. He takes his time, he has to be sure, and when he stops he begins again- just to _be sure_ – so that nothing might have happened in the interim-

There are no days and nights in the halls of stone. Həməngɒtli:b does not know how long he counts- feverishly, unable to stop- before the great strength of his body gorged and sated on the magic of the halls and the hoard- finally fails.

He dreams of thieves. The curse hunts him as his mind scrambles for the sounds, groping for them like trying to climb a crumbling hillside, feeling his claws slide through disintegrating stone, slipping and sliding and finding nothing to hold on to in a dreamscape of numbness-

The clatter of coins sliding against coins snaps his eyes open.

He knows every sound his treasure makes, the slow shift and hiss of gold and gemstone as the hoard settles, the crunch of his own weight on the hoard, the faint click when the rats dare to scuttle over his hoard. This is very like the last, only larger, heavier, moving more carefully-

And the cursed fear that had been coiling and writhing within him finally breaks free and it's almost a relief, after building up for so long. His body comes up almost of its own accord, his wings snapping free- so large they almost brush the walls now, his head rearing so high his horns scratch new grooves in the ceiling. Fire boils in his belly, scorches the back of his throat.

The intruder does not try to hide. They do not cower or flinch or even- now Həməngɒtli:b can see them – look afraid.

He lowers his head slowly, letting his eyes focus on the intruder – _thief- thief- marauder-interloper- THIEF_ \- not a dragon, or a dwarf, after so long; but a small, unknown creature, smaller than a hatchling, clad in soft green and brown, feet bare on Həməngɒtli:b’s hoard.

He looks right back up at him, unafraid, his eyes so bright they almost shine. Həməngɒtli:b lowers his head until they are almost level to each other, huffs hot air at the curious- thing, and only gets a dazzling smile in response.

He isn’t sure what to make of the creature. Even the fear is stunned into momentary silence. For all his terror of thieves, he has never thought of what would happen if he met one- and he is fairly sure that a thief would be running or trying to hide, not standing out in the open where a single burst of flame would incinerate them.

It has been so long since Həməngɒtli:b has been able to think of anything but the hoard without fear, he sniffs the intruder and gets scents of water and forest and the snow from the mountain outside, and a strange, creature smell- not elf or dwarf or human or anything he has ever encountered.

They are still smiling, and he has never seen anyone look at anything with so much delight and joy- let alone seen it directed at himself. This close, Həməngɒtli:b can see their legs are trembling, but they do not try to run.

“Wow.” It’s little more than a whisper, but it all but echoes in the great, silent halls. They reach out a hand to touch the sharp, jagged scales of Həməngɒtli:b’s jaw.

He snorts, and that makes the impertinent creature jump, “You dare?” It’s been so long since he has heard his own voice that _he_ almost jumps too- it seems so impossible _loud_.

"Sorry!" The thing snatches their hand away and attempts a rough bow made even clumsier as the coins slide under their feet. “"I mean- I am sorry, Great One, I only meant to- uh, I wished to glimpse your greatness and-“" A second bow, the creature loses their footing and topples forward.

Perhaps it's the untold ages spent in silence and alone, but the stilted honorifics are only an irritation. "Get up!"”

The creature staggers to their feet, stumbles and grabs hold of Həməngɒtli:b’s nose spur to stay upright. The sudden contact is such a shock that he snorts and jerks away, almost sending the tiny thing flying if it had not let go in time.

“Sorry- this isn’t how I thought this would go, sorry- I uh- I'm saying that a lot-“"

"Be silent!" Even after those few words his throat feels rough from the unexpected activity. “"Who- and what are you, impertinent thing?"”

"Uh, right- I prepared this- I was took, but never taken, am a newt which never swam- although that's not true now- blast-"

"What are you talking about?”" Riddles; he used to enjoy riddles, now he feels his mind hit a rut and _drag_ against the curse, the urge to count starting to build. He tenses.

"Um-"“ The creatures shoulders fall a little. “Yeah, sorry, I tried to think some up ahead of time, but I guess they didn’t work. I am- I guess you’ve never seen one of us, we don’t get out much. I’m a Took, a Hobbit. My name’s Newt.”

This doesn’t make much more sense, Həməngɒtli:b’s has never heard of Tooks or Hobbits, and he has never seen anything that looks less like a newt. “And what do you think you are doing in _my home_?”

And the –Hobbit?- stops stuttering and apologizing and delivers another of those brilliant, dazzling grins, that makes Həməngɒtli:b ache for the long forgotten sun. “I came to see you, of course.”

Həməngɒtli:b chokes, sparks fly from his nose and he coughs smoke, only just holding back flame that would have incinerated the tiny Hobbit on the spot. The lies and riddles had irritated him, but there is nothing but utter honesty in those words, in that smile. His eyes narrow, his muzzle draws back to show teeth. “"What are you talking about?"

Newt does not even flinch, eyes widening in awe, smile only growing broader. "I- wow- I never thought I'd ever _be here_ , I've _dreamed_ about this for years and now I'm _here_ and you're _amazing_ \- just- wow, just _look at you_! I never even dreamed- your scales and your wings- I wish we were outside, I'd love to see you in daylight- all red and gold- you must look like a –a _firestorm_ , in the right light-“

His hand slips out again, and this time, Həməngɒtli:b lets him lay his hand on the stiff plates on his upper lip. Newt touches him just with the tips of his fingers, reverently, as though he were touching something infinitely precious, some- art object, or jewel-

The thought of treasure makes the fear jump, and Həməngɒtli:b sinks his claws into the hoard, he will not, _he will not_ -

Newt’s chattering breaks through his frostbitten, icelocked thoughts. "Wow."” It's hushed. "You're- _amazing_ , so beautiful. I can feel the heat from here."” He strokes the plates gently. “"I don't suppose you could- I mean, it would be an honour if you'd-"“

And maybe it's the distraction, the chattering slowly uncoiling the tension and it feels so _good_ Həməngɒtli:b could cry from it; he lifts his head, fills his lungs and unlocks the deep chambers in his body, the ever-present heat turning to burning tracework up his throat, filling his mouth and bursting forth - red-hot, white-hot, blue-hot – to blast the wall. The stones boil and lose their shape, the ceiling creaks as the wall grows weak, molten rock dripping down to hiss and smoke on the marble floor.

Newt’s jaw is hanging open, eye wide and bright as stars. Həməngɒtli:b glances scathingly at him and he closes his jaw with a snap. He’s breathing unsteadily when he looks up at him, smile spreading slowly across his face again. “You’re so beautiful.” His voice is husky. “Like a sunset. I always dreamed-“

“Of seeing a dragon?” Həməngɒtli:b feels his teeth creak, his mouth stretch. He hasn't smiled in so long it feels strange.

"Yes."” He takes a step closer, looking up at him. "I mean, I had books, but nothing like- they couldn't have ever seen a dragon either, and nothing like _you_. It was all going on about teeth like swords, claws like spears and breath like death-"

"Quite accurate."” Həməngɒtli:b coils his tail up, sweeping a small bow-wave of coins and jewels before it. For once, he doesn’t worry about anything rolling down nonexistent holes or getting lost in dark corners that don’t exist.

Newt grins, “Yeah, but they don’t mention the other stuff- how beautiful you are, or the sheer- majesty and glory and- I can't believe I'm even _here_ , you're so amazing I keep thinking I'm going to _wake up_ -"

"Do you think you could have imagined something like me, even in your wildest dreams?" He lets Newt come up to him, between his forelimbs. Yes, it's vanity, but after so long alone the praise and attention warms him more than his fire could.

"Of course not. Thanks, now I know I'm not dreaming. If I woke up and I was stuck at home again- I'd, oh, I don’t know-“

“You would leave at once and go in search of Həməngɒtli:b, Lord Under the Mountain.”

“Is that you?” And when Newt meets his narrowed gaze, his eyes are shy, “I’m sorry, but you didn’t exactly tell anyone your name. It’s – Hermann?”

He snorts, close enough. "How could you be satisfied with books, if they did not even describe such as me?" How long has he been down here? Is it long enough for humans and dwarves to write their books? The ages fade in a blur of treasure and counting, and his mind slips against the curse again and he shudders, the coins ringing around him, hoping the Hobbit will go back to talking.

"No, the books were rubbish. Nothing even close to the real thing, and full of propaganda."” He sits down, just by Həməngɒtli:b’s left claw. “I wanted to go for- _years_ ; oh, you wouldn’t believe it. I nearly went mad. I went entire _days_ without thinking about anything else- I’d dream about dragons all day and all night- Look-“ he pulls up the sleeves of his shirt and when Həməngɒtli:b looks closer at the tiny designs, he sees dragons coiled all around his arms, red and blue and green and gold. He can see the tips of wings on the curve of his neck, the end of tails just brushing his ankles. He knows only a little of the human art, but such work must have taken years, and cost a lot of pain to frail, scale-less skin. "Sometimes getting those felt like the only thing that kept me together."

"I would not walk into a dragon's lair and speak of being in one's right mind, in my opinion." Həməngɒtli:b settles himself more comfortably, letting his wings furl and his diamond encrusted belly resting on the hoard.

“Yeah, I guess not. It was better though- better than the usual – well, never mind.”

“Than the usual what? What _do_ Tooks do usually- or is it Hobbits?”

“Tooks usually get called odd by other Hobbits and are not invited to parties. Me, I get called odd by Tooks and everyone avoids me.”

Həməngɒtli:b snorts. “A singularity dull group, by the sound of it.”

Newt laughs, and it sounds sad. “Yeah well, no one likes to be seen talking to a Took, and a cursed Took on top of everything.”

Həməngɒtli:b is suddenly very, very still. “A curse?” He feels his own stir, his tail flicks absently over the hoard and he has to fight not the start the tally again.

The Hobbit shrugs, a tiny lift, and for a moment his face falls and his hands tremble. Həməngɒtli:b sees him bite his lip, clench his fists and hold himself so stiff he almost shivers. Then he looks up with an unsteady smile. "Nothing that'll interest you-"

"I will be the judge of that. On the contrary, I find myself greatly interested by- curses." Just the _word_ draws up the fear, and he finds himself tensing, trying to hold still enough for it to pass over him, to push it away, the ringing of coins as his claws dig in and clench in on themselves-

Just like the Hobbit. Just the same posture, the same trembling tension. The same clenched fists. "Tell me." He manages.

Newt takes a few deep, steadying breaths. “"It's- stupid, no idea why you'd want-"

"Tell me!" He tastes flame, the shadows in the hall flickers as red tongues flick from his jaws. Newt stops tensing and watches, mesmerized.

"If you ask so nicely," He smiles a little, "Okay, I- I don't know who did it. We have a wizard who comes by sometimes but I never angered him! And he's not the sort to put curses on people- more like the kind who pushes you out of the door on an adventure." The last is muttered and Həməngɒtli:b doesn’t comment, waiting for the Hobbit to get to the point.

“I don’t know, maybe it’s in the family. Some goblin shaman put a hex on old Bullroarer and it came down to me-“

Həməngɒtli:b brushes off the nonsense and, when Newt looks like he won't continue; "Perhaps something you own?"”

Newt looks up at him sharply, frowning. "Maybe. Might be the house, I never could-"“ He sighs. "I could never leave. I wanted to. I'd have been around to see you _years_ ago if only-"“ His hands shake, his teeth lock.

Həməngɒtli:b blows a burst of flame, the gemstones gleam and shimmer in the vivid roar, and Newt smiles. “Every time I tried to leave, I’d be sure I left the kettle on or didn’t lock the door or a shutter or- something. And- oh, it sounds stupid when I try and talk about it but I- I couldn't _leave_ until I checked, and even when I did I suddenly wouldn't be sure and have to check again and I'd be like that for _weeks_ -"

The fear rises like frost, and the flames die in his throat, the curse locks its claws in his mind and suddenly Həməngɒtli:b cannot move, cannot speak. Hearing it put to _words_ -

“And I couldn’t move. I had to get my cousin to drop food off, it was so bad. And if I didn’t do the checks straight away it would- _punish me_ or something, I’d get so scared I couldn’t move and if I couldn’t move I couldn’t check so it would get worse and worse-“

Həməngɒtli:b cannot move to count, and oh, how he wants to. He would give every scale on his body for the ability to just _move_ , just to start to count to break free of the clenching, tearing fear ripping through his inside, crumbling his bones.

“"And in the end I'd just _snap_ and it would be-“"

And then it's done. It's too much. He covers his head and the fear- the senseless, agonizing _fear_ racks through him- it's all the worse because he _knows_ it's wrong- the only thief here is right in front of him and all he wants is to steal a glance.

He tries to break free- if only to _count_ , but he's held it off too long and it comes in a storm. His bones lock hard enough to snap and his body turns and thrashes, throwing coins and he cannot even spare a thought in concern of his odd guest because the curse is in him now, deep and tearing and he coils and uncoils himself over and over and oh please make it stop anything he will do nothing but count for the rest of his life just make it stop _make it stop make it stop_ -

"-awful." Newt finishes in a whisper, eyes wide.

Həməngɒtli:b trembles as the last shakes of the attack work their way free. He cannot even spare a glance for Newt, turns at once and starts to count. Everything outside the hoard goes grey and blurs into senselessness. The world narrowing to a single line of numbers- _245,982 coins of gold. 345,453 coins of silver. 238 gemstones of diamond. 359 gemstones of emerald-_

The world slowly swims back into focus. He isn't even too sure how many times he counted through his hoard before the curse finally loosens its grip and the fear crawls back into whatever shadows breed it. He closes his eyes, slumping across the hoard, every bone aching, mind bloody as a blade on unscaled skin.

"Hermann?" The voice cuts through the raw numbness of his thoughts, he manages to get an eye open.

Newt is crouched very close to his head. One hand half outstretched as though to touch him. Həməngɒtli:b closes his eyes and groans, and lets Newt touch the crest above one eye.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers. Həməngɒtli:b looks at him; after that display he would have thought it would have entirely destroyed whatever admiration Newt had harbored for his species. Instead, Newt looks stricken. "I- didn't know. I mean, yeah, you didn't tell me but I- I'm sorry. Is that why you're- with curses- oh I'm sorry."

Həməngɒtli:b tries to draw all his thoughts together; it hurts to _think_ , but he manages to get a grip on the important part. “But you left. You were cursed, but you left. You’re here now.”

“I guess, but- it wasn’t easy. It took years and in the end a wizard had to throw me out and even now I get a bit- off.”

“You still left.” Who knows where he came from, it’s further than Həməngɒtli:b has managed for- so long. If he could just tell him how he did it, Həməngɒtli:b could fly again, see the sky. The stars.

“I-“ Newt signs, and settles next to Həməngɒtli:b’s head, he hugs his knees. “One day, I just thought ‘so, what’s the worse that happens? The house gets burgled or broken into or burns down’. And the weird thing was when I thought about it, not the fear just- what would happen- it was such a _relief_. Like, if it burnt down I would feel so much better because there wouldn't be anything to be scared of anymore, and by then I _hated_ the miserable place so much I'd have lit the match myself."

The thought- the thought of _thinking_ of losing his hoard is so overwhelming Həməngɒtli:b cannot even approach it. The curse, the fear, it has been such a nightmare for so long he cannot even tempt it.

“So I’d leave and whatever I was cursed to think about I’d think of it going wrong- really wrong. As wrong as it could go. And for as long as I did it, the curse couldn’t work.”

Həməngɒtli:b closes his eyes, tries to think- no- no he cannot- it’s too much. The fear gnaws at his backbone.

“Couldn’t think about it for very long- maybe as long as it takes to get to the end of the lane. And when it didn't work it was- bad. Really bad. Worse than before. But I got better at it; I could go to the shop or to the river. And then it didn’t happen all the time any more, and then- a wizard said I was getting complacent and threw me on this adventure." He smiles.

To go out. To leave, to see the stars again- even the thought threatens to break him, the fear snarling and tearing at him.

"What-" Newt hesitates, "What are you scared- no, not scared; dragons are never scared, right?" The fear uncoils a little, and Həməngɒtli:b manages a smile, “What’s- bothering you then?”

He takes a breath and tries to form the words- even bringing them to mind is a terror, they burn his throat, as though his very fire was turning against him. His jaw trembles, the slow build of another attack and he shudders with it- "I-" He forces out, "I fear-" And it is a fear, such a fear, a terror- "I fear- thieves."

And with that, the tension snaps.

For a moment he holds still, waiting for the attack, the screaming revenge of the curse for daring to speak of it. But there is- nothing. The fear, the huge, unspeakable, intolerable terror- it all fits in those three stuttered words. Words from his throat. Air from his lungs. All that fear, shrunk down so small.

"Oh.” Newt blinks, looks around as though seeing the hoard for the first time. “You’d need an army to get through this lot.”

“Or a handful of dwarves.” Həməngɒtli:b growls, and with that, the tension relaxes a little more and he can _breathe_.

Newt laughs, “Yeah," He looks down again, sifts through a cluster of diamonds beside him, letting them run through his fingers. "Well, if it's thieves you're worried about, that would be- me."

"You." There are artefacts in this hoard Newt couldn't hope to lift; with a twitch of his tail Hermann could bury and drown him in gold.

"Yep, that's why I'm here. The wizard wanted a burglar."

Hermann turns his head and lifts it a little, until they are nose-to-nose. "A burglar."

Newt smiles, and he _isn't scared_. “"The dwarves want their hoard back, so they took me along.”

He’s speaking the words of Həməngɒtli:b’s nightmares, and shrinking them to laughable proportions. “And you are coming down here and telling me this,” Each breath comes more easily; a smile pulls at his mouth.

Newt smiles back, and shrugs. “I just wanted to see a dragon.”

And Həməngɒtli:b throws his head back and _laughs_.

The ceiling shakes, dust trickles down and the coins chime as they vibrate. He hasn’t laughed for so long. Even before this curse, before this place, there were so few occasions where he was so happy. But the _relief_ , the sudden loosening of his shackles, the curse shrunk down and almost ignorable-

Finally, the fit has burnt itself to ember chuckles, and Həməngɒtli:b looks down at the grinning Hobbit. “And did they know you would come and tell me everything?"

Newt shrugs, rolls his eyes, and that’s enough. Həməngɒtli:b snorts and coils his great body closer. “So will you tell them they have come all this way for nothing?” Həməngɒtli:b smiles.

Newt says nothing for a long moment, then, “No. I’m going to tell them they can come down here and take everything.”

For a moment, Həməngɒtli:b thinks he cannot have heard correctly. That his ears, which can hear rats scrabbling in the deepest cellars, somehow were mistaken.

Newt exhales slowly, carefully, “"Just- think about it. They'll come down here, with bags and crates and- we've got ponies too and- yeah, you said it, a bunch of dwarves can do the work of an army-“"

The fear seems stunned inside him, trying to wake but confused. Həməngɒtli:b feels the flames roast the back of his throat, fighting to break free and destroy this impertinent, suicidal, _mad_ -

“And they’ll start at that end-“ Newt points at the hoard closest to the door- _200,466 coins, 3467 diamonds, a cluster of jeweled swords heavy with magic_ \- but Newt keeps talking, “"They'll load it up and carry it out to the smallest tunnels in the mountain. I know you could get into them before, but you won't be able to now. Not without bringing the mountain down on your head-"

He should kill him. He should stop him talking before the curse awakes, the attack will be the worst one he has ever had, it will tear him apart-

"And they'll keep going. There's enough space in the tunnels for everything. They'll keep at it, bit by bit- it’ll take weeks, but they’ve been waiting for centuries-“

Həməngɒtli:b curls up a little tighter, trying to flatten himself against the hoard- as though the curse might miss him when it comes- overlook him and sweep on to- something else.

“And when they’re done.” Newt continues; voice steady and calm, “There won’t be anything here. Just- close your eyes.” His eyes meet Həməngɒtli:b’s and after a moment, the dragon closes his eyes. “The room is empty,” His voice doesn’t waver, and- how often has he done this? Spoken to himself of his greatest fears, when all he wanted was to walk out of the door? “There isn't anything left, not a coin, or a jewel or- anything. Just cold stones. You're lying on flagstones, the light is grey and the dwarves are gone. The hoard is gone."

His hand touches Həməngɒtli:b’s head, the fine scales just under his eye. He can see it now. The scene from his nightmares. An empty hall. A vanished hoard, Him, cold and alone and- tiny again, a stripling child-

 _Free_.

Həməngɒtli:b takes a deep shuddering breath, then opens his eyes,“"What sort of madman are you," he croaks, "That you come and speak to a dragon about stealing his hoard?"

"A cursed madman." Newt sighs. "You don't think I haven't dreamed of- setting my house on fire so many times? I could never do it, but-"

"I cannot do it either." It hurts to admit, to cave to the curse and realise how _weak_ it has made him.

"-but," Newt continues, and he's smiling a little, "I always wished someone would do it for me."

"Do you think I will be able to just- _sit here_ while those dwarves make off with my hoard?” Həməngɒtli:b sits up, tail lashing the coins.

Newt opens his mouth, closes it. “I could, talk to you, I suppose?” He offers finally. “Take your mind off it?”

The empty halls, the silence of the vanished hoard. The curse digging its claws into him- longer and sharper claws even than his-

And the little, chirruping voice breaking into the madness. Thinking of something else- anything else- but the curse.

The open sky. The stars. So long ago and far away they could be dreams- if he could dream of anything but the curse, now.

"Can you talk that long?"” Həməngɒtli:b says finally.

Newt grins. “About dragons? I can talk for _years_."

 

* * *

 

 

The dwarves are still in the tunnel when Newt comes back, they look up as he approaches. “Saw your dragon then, burglar?” There’s a smug sort of smile under that beard, “Not quite what you were expecting? Were you frozen in fear- or did you run away in terror and get lost?" There's a low sort of laugh, and Newt glares. Or tries to. It's hard to be angry on the best day of his life.

"He was incredible."” Newt sits down and the memories of the last half day are so huge and overwhelming that the dingy tunnel is eclipsed in shadows of gold and scarlet. "Awesome." He breathes. "Just- I never imagined. I mean, I always knew the books had to be- lying or- wrong but-" There are no words, nothing he can say could encompass the dark, burning _glory_ of what he has seen-

But by the looks on the dwarves' faces, he's already said too much. "Oh, why don't you just go back there and ask him to eat you already, Geiszler?"” One of them- Raleigh or Yancy, Newt never bothered telling them apart- snarls, "To spare us your company,"

"Yes," Is that Alexis or Sasha? Dwarves of both sexes look the same, "Did you find out anything while you were down there, or are you going to burn off our ears with dragon stories again?"

Newt hesitates, and the shadows are close and warm around him, the coils and curves of the dragon's great body. Impenetrable scales above, imbedded diamonds in the softer hide beneath.

And the hollow, at the joint of wing and body, where Hermann could not see it, just above his heart, the bare white of the skin.

Newt says nothing.

"Did you even bring anything back with you?" That is definitely Alexis.

Newt looks down at his hand, his fingers tight around his prize.

They all sit up, "Did you find something?" One of the Weis.

Mako's voice is soft, her eyes vivid and bright, near fanatic. "Did you find the Heartstone?"

Oh, _that_ , some ancient something or other of the dwarves- or the elves- or the humans. Depending on who you ask. "No. It's probably buried in that lot somewhere."

They all slump a little, grumble to themselves and settle back, and Newt risks opening his hand a little. The tiny red scale gleams like a drop of blood on his palm. It had slipped free when Newt had touched the hollow of Hermann's eye.

Hermann. A dragon called _Hermann_. All the dragons he'd heard of were called Angrush the Black or Krulleth the Flame, they were never called _Hermann_.

But they never described the delicate curve of their horns, or the blaze of colour of those scales, or the way their fire turned them into a living sunrise.

The books were a load of rubbish, as he'd always suspected.

"Anyway." Newt sits down, "When do you want to start?"

"Start what?" Raleigh groans wearily.

Newt rolls his eyes; follow the conversation guys, seriously. "Getting the treasure, I mean, that's what you guys came here for, right?"

They all stop. They stare at him. "And get roasted alive?" Alexis growls.

Newt sighs and stretches his legs, "Look, it's easy. I keep the dragon distracted, and you come in and take the treasure. Treasure's gone, the dragon has no reason to stay, and he flies off. You get the gold and the place, the end."

They're still staring. "And when the dragon realises his treasure's missing, then what?" Raleigh manages.

"We cannot move everything in a day." Wei number two.

"That beast saw off my family." Mako's voice is still soft. "They were lost, and alone, and homeless. It should be dead."

"Are you sure you didn't see a weak spot?" Tendo insists.

"All dragons have a weakness." Mako says, her hand going to her sword.

Newt thinks of the bare patch of skin. Hardly the size of his hand, but just over Hermann's heart. "No, nothing."” He takes a breath. "Look, if I'm wrong, you're by the door, and it'll be taking the time to burn me first."

There is a pause. The dwarves look at each other. Raleigh shrugs. "We could get at least one good haul, I suppose." He leans in to talk to Mako, and the others huddle close.

Tendo looks at him, "You don't have to make something up just because you feel you have to," He says softly, "We can come up with something- something better than just charging down and getting fried or letting you get eaten-"

"No, it's fine." Newt smiles, “"Seriously, it'll work."

Tendo still looks uncertain. "Well, the wizard thought you might be able to help-" he starts uncertainly.

"And I _can_ help," Newt insists. "You can't just try and kill a dragon, you've got to _understand_ them-"

"I'd rather just kill them." Raleigh frowns at him from behind Tendo.

"Oh yeah, yeah, that's great, just run in and get burnt up why don't you-" it's pointless, Raleigh turns his back to him, and the others don't respond. Tendo shrugs and turns away too, to join the huddle.

Newt sighs, and the anger just fizzles out with nothing to feed it or vent on. He's ignored, and alone, and it's cold in here. Newt hugs his knees. The loneliness snags at his mind, and it turns, inexorably as a compass pointing north, towards home.

He needs to go home. He has not done so much- he is so far away- he must go- he must go- _he must go now-_

Newt screws his eyes shut. _It's on fire. He left the fire on and it burnt down. There's nothing but a hill with a big sooty hole in it. There's been a landslide and it's all gone. The river flooded and it's under water. It's gone. It's gone_.

The clenched fist of the curse slowly relaxes, defeated. Newt can catch his breath.

The dwarves talk late into the night, organising work shifts to get as much of the hoard moved to a place of safety before the dragon realised what was happening. They ignore Newt.

Newt offers to take first watch, they shrug and let him. Newt waits until they are asleep, then gets up and slips back down the corridor to the great hall.

Hermann is asleep, coiled in knots and half buried under the pile of gold and jewels. Newt steps carefully on the slippery coins, cold under his bare feet, clicking softly.

He walks over to the curved hollow of Hermann's body, just behind his forelegs. One half-closed eye revolves towards him. Newt smiles, and the eye closes again, fully this time.

Newt settles in the rich, delicious heat of Hermann's body, the warm light of the gold and the red glow from the banked fires within the dragon. The ground is harder than his bedroll, but he just doesn't care, already starting to close his eyes. He pats the dragon's side-

And his fingers brush the bare, soft hollow in his chest; he feels the unhidden heat of that great body, the deep, reverberating beat of that many-chambered heart

 

* * *

 

 

The faint clatter draws Həməngɒtli:b into wakefulness. From a nightmare, into a nightmare. The heavy chick of coins being moved, the scrape of enchanted weapons and armour. The almost soundless _plink_ of a jewel striking the bare stone floor.

The horror fills him, the curse screams in his ears, his eyes open and flame roars in his belly-

And Newt lands on his nose. The shock of it breaks the grip of the terror and Həməngɒtli:b blinks. Newt’s face is inches from his eyes, filling his field of vision. He smiles and strokes the ridges between his eyes.

His eyes are bright green. Dragon green, same as Həməngɒtli:b’s. How odd that such a lover of dragons would share their eyes. “Hey,” Newt slides off his nose. “Sorry about that, but- yeah. Anyway! I could tell you about Angrush the Black, I have three books about him at home. About how he could burn through solid rock, and carved a stronghold for himself out of the largest mountain- 

“No.” Həməngɒtli:b shakes his head. The thought of other dragons brings another old fear- a stronger rival, stealing his gold. He can almost hear the creak of scales behind him, and growling laughter, the flames even he cannot tolerate- “"Tell me- about your home."

"Okay." Newt sits down cross-legged in front of him. "It's a really small place really. But it's- really nice." He sounds a little wistful. "Not my house- that's- awful. But the rest; there's a river just by my house. It's- perfect, really. So clear you can see all the way down, it's all gold and deep green, and the silver from the trout. We used to go boating, and fishing. I’d swim sometimes- they used to think that was weird, but I loved it-“

Həməngɒtli:b closes his eyes, and lets the soft voice wash over him, sinking through his scales and the diamonds in his underbelly. They paint a picture of a world far from this place of stones and darkness. The land of rolling green, with broad trees rich with fruit. A broad, slow river, the little hillocks of homes. The happy, simple people who never understood this odd cousin of theirs, who loved dragons.

"Ever since I was a child, there's been this pub there- it's got a sign of a dragon and I remember seeing it for the first time, and I'd never seen anything more beautiful-"

The sky, so blue during the day. So pure and clear with stars at night. The warmth of the sun on the long, rich grass, dappled through the green leaves of trees. The scent of summer flowers, the crispness of winter snow.

Həməngɒtli:b clings to these words, a single gossamer thread in his mind as the curse thrashes within him, as the dwarves slowly eat away at his hoard.

 

* * *

 

 

Newt's throat is raw, and his stomach is growling. He glances over Hermann’s shoulder and catches Tendo's eye. Tendo nods, and ushers the others upstairs 

He stays with Hermann though, until the dragon falls asleep. The endless shudders that had been shaking his body finally calming, his feverish eyes closing, uncertain breaths easing into sleep.

The dwarves are eating when he gets to them. Newt says nothing, but makes a beeline for the sausages. He stuffs down four and is following it with a hunk of bread, when he realises no one else is eating. They are staring at him.

Newt swallows. "What?"

"The beast let you live?" Mako looks at him over a steaming cup of tea.

Newt shrugs, stuffs the rest of the bread into his mouth. "I know dragons." He sprays crumbs. Alexis winces.

"Well enough to convince one to let us have his hoard?" Chuck speaks up, frowning.

He shrugs again, "Today worked out. Tomorrow will too. We all got out alive."

They look at each other, at the pile of gold stuffed down a narrow corridor. Without the glow of Hermann's body, it is cold and dead.

"If you are betraying us," Herc lets the threat hang. Newt rolls his eyes.

"Then I'll be the first one eaten. Or d'you think dragons let thieves live? Even traitorous thieves?”

Herc frowns for a minute, then snorts, turning away.

Newt spreads his hands, "It'll work, trust me."

 

* * *

 

 

And it does work. He brings lunch with him, and a waterskin, and sits beside Hermann, and talks for hours. Sometimes Hermann asks for more detail or to hear about something else, but mostly he's just quiet. Eyes closed. Like he's trying to claw into Newt's words and disappear.

And the dwarves work. Newt hadn't really considered the truth of the saying 'busy as a dwarf' but- gods, it's accurate. They work like ants, tireless. The ponies wait on the steps for their saddlebags to be filled, and stagger back up under the huge weight of gold and gemstones.

Hermann tenses, starts, moans softly, and Newt stokes his nose, the fine scales under his chin, the broad plates on his back. He sighs, shivers, calms down. Behind them, the dwarves have frozen. Newt nods at them and they start again. Over and over, through the long hours with no day or night so far underground.

The room seems colder now. Half the gold must be gone, and the glow is dimmer, more red now. Hermann sleeps fitfully, waking and scrabbling through the remains of his hoard until Newt sits by him and starts talking again. Of the stars. The weather. The sky Hermann has not seen for centuries.

He doesn't want to leave; and the moment he gets up Hermann opens an eye and although he is too proud to say so aloud- he begs Newt not to go.

"I have to eat." Newt whispers, stroking the hollow of his jaw. Hermann groans, and closes his eyes again. The moment Newt climbs off the hoard to the growing circle of bare floor, he hears Hermann start to count through his coins again.

He remembers going to his garden gate and being unable to open it for the _fear_. Then it was halfway up the path. At the start of the path. His garden grew wild and overgrown and he was unable to walk out of the front door.

It's a miserable, horrible curse they have. Newt wonders how the dwarves did it. As vicious as Hermann was, driving the dwarves out, costing Mako's family their home- no one deserves this nightmare.

They are still busy upstairs, carrying their loot to safe places within the mountain hold. Tendo smiles at him; and even the others nod. He's handed a bundle of food, and although they are being friendlier now, it's still a relief to get back down to Hermann.

He's still counting, and it's amazing. His claws skip over coins and jewels, his wings arch out to encompass the great mass, his tail brushes over the hoard. He is counting all at once, without stopping. It's dizzying to watch.

"Hey, hey-" Newt scrambles up the side of the hoard. Hermann blinks at him, wretched and lost. Newt places his hand on the great muzzle, leans close. "Hey, shh, it's okay. It's okay."

"It's gone." And nothing, let alone something as glorious and brilliant and awesome as a dragon, should ever sound that lost, that- small.

"Yeah, it's gone." Newt strokes the underside of his chin, "It'll be all gone soon. And the curse will be broken. You can fly again. You'll see the stars."

Hermann sighs, shivering, his body slowly slumping down to lie on his hoard. "Tell me about them." He looks so _tired_.

Newt sits down, opens his bag and starts on an apple. "We have names for all of the stars back home. We draw patterns among the stars- a horse and rider, an elven mage- even a dragon." Hermann grumbles his approval. "And we tell stories about them-"

Hermann is slipping back to true sleep when Newt has finished eating. He's warm behind him, the gold glows softly around them. A lone point of light among the shadows and darkness of the hall.

"What a miserable place." Newt mumbles to himself. Why would anyone want to live here? Hermann- yes, obviously, even a dragon couldn't carry all that gold- but Mako? And the others? Even Newt's dirty, sad little home is brighter than this place.

He sinks his toes into the warm metal, feeling the slippery chill of the coins, the occasional scratchy edge of a gemstone. The hilt of a blade protrudes nearby. Newt draws it out, marveling how _light_ it is. Even with the size- a short sword for a human is a two-hander for a Hobbit. Newt is sure he could use it.

Oh well. He is supposed to have a share of the hoard, but what would he use it for, even if he could get it home? Newt drives it back into the coins and sifts through the hoard again absently.

And his hand finds something smooth and even, buried under a thin covering of gold.

Newt draws it out. It's a diamond- a huge diamond the size of his hand, a beautiful, even, milky blue. It's heavy and smooth on the underside, faceted and shimmering on top in the soft glow of Hermann's body.

It's not worth a thirteenth of the share, but it might be the most valuable single piece here. It's gorgeous. And maybe- Newt wants something to remember this place by- this wonderful, amazing adventure.

Hermann grumbles in his sleep and Newt starts, then shakes his head. It's a bit nasty to be considering his share of the hoard, when its loss is causing his friend such pain. Newt sighs, and is about to throw the diamond away 

But...

He turns, and looks up at the curve of Hermann's chest behind him, the perfect, flawless wall of precious jewels covering the dragon's vulnerable underbelly. And the tiny, hand-sized hollow over his heart.

Newt tucks the diamond under his arm and carefully puts a foot on the side of Hermann's neck. Hermann growls and coughs, but doesn't wake. Newt finds a handhold and starts to climb- to the top of Hermann's neck, then over his shoulder, toes finding a foothold on the collarbone, over his shoulder to the massive curve of his wing muscle.

Hermann yawns, his great jaws opening to show a dazzling array of perfect teeth, he turns, almost throwing Newt off, rubs a new hollow for his head among the coins, and slips off again.

Newt catches his breath, and reaches down. His fingers touch the delicate skin, feel the beat of that huge heart, the heat of those impossible fires deep within.

He takes the diamond from under his arm, weighs it carefully in his hand, measuring it by eye, then reaches down and slots it into the gap between the other stones.

It fits perfectly.

The sight of that unbroken array of gems- yellow, gold, red, green and now, milky blue, makes him smile, even while some part of him quietly laments the loss of that bare patch of skin, the vulnerability of it, the closeness he felt, being the only one to know of Hermann's weakness- even though he'd never speak of it.

Hermann must have felt something, because he snorts, then opens his eyes. He starts to get up-

"Wait- no- ahh!" Newt's fingers slip on the scales as they shift suddenly to lie flat, and Hermann's shoulder tenses and turns.

He freezes, turns his head to look at Newt. "What are you doing up there?"

"Um, climbing." Newt grins a little helplessly. Behind him, towards the stairs, he can hear the faint clip of the ponies' hooves. The dwarves are ready to go again. "I used to climb trees all the time back home, want me to tell you about them?"

Hermann's tail flicks over to rest beside Newt, who grabs it gratefully. "I would like nothing better." He lowers Newt to the ground.

"Okay, well, the best time to climb is in autumn, when the pears and apples are ripe-"

 

* * *

 

 

His hoard is growing cold. There is always less and less to lie on. He spreads it out, so it still covers the same amount of space. But it doesn't help now, when there is so little to lie on, when the ceiling of the hall rises ever higher around him, and the cold of the stones seeps through the coins.

Newt is talking about- something- Həməngɒtli:b barely recognises the words any more, just the tone, the comfort- when his tail flicks out and hits cold floor.

And the curse, the grumbling, half-sleeping curse, roars awake.

He cannot count. It has been too long for that. The horror, the panic- it obliterates all. The world vanishes beneath a dark cloud and the screaming starts.

His eyes are dark. His ears are full of his own shrieks. His body lifts and falls, his wings beat madly like a trapped bird's. He hits the ground with enough force to crack the bedrock beneath, but no pain can filter through the sheer horror of it.

There are cries around him- not his cries- but he cannot think on them- there is nothing, his body snaps and writhes under the curse, beats itself against the floors and wall, his wings fracture the air and he crashes to the ceiling-

He _screams_ -

The eclipse in his eyes fades to dark grey, then slowly lightens as the world seeps back in. His is lying on the cold flagstones, the perfectly fitting granite cracked to gravel under the force of his body. The sorry remains of his hoard are scattered around the room, and there is no light but the dull glow of his own body.

And Newt-

Newt.

Həməngɒtli:b rears up, every inch of his body screaming from its abuse. The terror of the curse is replaced by his own, very real fear. “Newt-" His voice is hoarse from screaming. "Newt, I- where are you? Are you-"

The fear claws his throat shut, his eyes track desperately across the now-so-empty hall-

"Hermann?" The voice is very small, and comes from behind him.

He turns, disorientated, he hadn't realised he had his back to the stairwell. "Newt?"

The Hobbit peers around the entrance. "Are you- are you okay?"

Həməngɒtli:b exhales slowly, and, as though that air was the only thing keeping him upright, he sinks to the cold floor. “I- I am sorry.”

He is not sure if a dragon has ever apologized before. But then, how many dragons are so terribly cursed?

Newt walks over, tentatively at first, then most comfortably. He sits on Həməngɒtli:b’s foreleg. “I’m sorry too. I didn’t- I mean, it happened to me too. Happened twice in fact. The first time someone brought me home in the wheelbarrow. The second I got to wake up with a cow licking me. It was pretty horrible.”

“An understatement.” Həməngɒtli:b lowers his head to the floor. It’s bitterly cold.

“I should have warned you.” Newt strokes his crest.

It shakes under his hand, Həməngɒtli:b is shaking his head. “I would just have worried about it."

Newt smiles, "Yeah."

For a moment they sit in silence at the far end of the huge hall. The far corners glimmer dully with discarded treasure, piled up against the wall like snowdrifts.

"It's nearly over." Newt speaks for the both of them.

 

* * *

 

 

Newt goes upstairs to get his food, and walks into a huge row. It's all in dwarvish, but Mako's pale with anger, and Herc is bright red. Newt tries to quietly sneak past-

"Newt!"

Damn. 

They are all looking at him. "I just want dinner!" Newt protests.

"Hobbits." Alexis shakes his head, but Herc and Mako are not looking away.

"We have not found the Heartstone." Tendo says with a sigh.

Newt holds both hands up. "I haven't taken anything- it's all yours-"

"Then you wouldn't mind us looking through your bags." Sasha crosses her arms.

"Hey- no." Newt drops the bag of cold cooked beets he'd been examining. “Why do you want to-" Tendo catches his arm.

"Look, they don't really think you've got it. But Mako needs to know if it's there. Let them have a look. We've checked all our things."

Newt blinks, and looks at Mako, she is pale and still, but when he looks closer, her hands are shaking. "Right," he says finally, a little hoarse, "Sure."

Raleigh snorts at his little packet of dragon books, but they don't look too hard- not enough to find the little scale tucked inside his shirt, when they tell him to turn his pockets out.

Mako's shoulders fall, and Raleigh puts an arm around her, letting her lean against him. The others put their heads together, murmur in dwarvish.

Tendo sighs, "Newt, have you seen it? You spend more time down there than any of us."

Newt swallows his mouthful of beet and throws his hands up. "I don't even know what it _looks_ like!" He stuffs in another mouthful; he's hungry, Hermann's probably a mess down there-

Mako turns; "The size of my hand, smooth underneath, faceted on top, a blue like a misty sky." Her eyes bore into him and Newt feels cold at the intensity of her gaze, the barely hidden _need_ -

It is everything Newt can do not to move, not to say anything, not to blink. He is deliriously grateful for his absurdly bulging cheekful of beet. The dwarves dismiss his input before they even hear it. "Never seen it." He sprays red chunks everywhere.

"Thank you for your assistance." Raleigh sighs. "Why don't you go and keep your friend company? We'll try and finish tonight." He turns to Mako. "We'll find it down there, I'm sure."

"Or the humans took it. Or the elves." Mako shakes her head. "They scavenged the halls when the dragon took over. Before it shut them out. They might have it. They will lie and claim it was theirs, as they did before!"

"The halls will be yours again." Raleigh rubs her back.

And Newt goes down again, chewing miserably. It's such a miserable mess he doesn't even know where to start- or if anything he says will not make it worse.

Hermann turns his head when he comes back down and settles close, basking in the warmth of his body after the freezing chill of the halls.

He's gathered the remains of the treasure close to the stairwell, but they are sitting away, by the far wall. They look at the sorry pile, ridiculous after the memory of the enormous hoard.

"There is a saying among my people." Hermann says finally. "' _The greatest curse is the unearned hoard_.' I always thought it was the whining of loose-scale fools, but now- I wonder."

Newt reaches up and touches the smooth edges of the Heartstone, glowing blue-red from Hermann's body. "How did you not earn it? I mean, Mako's never going to forgive you, but you did steal it pretty successfully."

"They say every part of the hoard must have a story behind it. That you have to gather it over the millennia; little by little. Or it will never really be yours."

"But it was yours,"

"Yes. And every night I dreamed of thieves- dwarves, humans, even another dragon. Every day it was mine, and every night it was theirs. And now it will never be mine again." He sounds sad and tired, but the desperate terror is gone.

There is nothing Newt can say to that.

"Is that how it was with your home? Was it- not earned?"

Newt hesitates. "No, I- I always lived there. My mother lived there, and then I got it after she- left. Maybe it was- too much mine?"

"I don't know." Hermann closes his eyes.

And for a while, there is silence.

"It has been so long since I have seen the sky." Hermann says finally. "I am almost- afraid. A dragon afraid of the sky." He snorts.

"You'll be fine." Newt scratches his head, and Hermann smiles, one eye opening. "Really. After you've done this, you can do anything."

"Can I, now?"

"I told a bunch of trolls how tasty I was to distract them. After leaving home, that was easy."

Hermann laughs, loud and bright and so happy Newt is left breathless. "Trolls and dwarves and dragons," He lowers his head until they are nose-to-nose. "Tell me, did you ever intend to return home?"

Newt's smile fades a little because- no, not really. But the treasure is nearly gone. And when it is gone, Hermann will go too. To the sky he has not seen for centuries.

And Newt will go home. To the green wolds, and his miserable, hungry home. With nothing but memories to keep him from the curse.

He forces a smile.

The dwarves come down, and Hermann curls up with his back to the stairs, his head to the wall. "I don't believe I have ever told you of the stars." He murmurs, his voice echoes in the tight space, drowns out the clatter of hooves, the scrape of armor, the clink of gold.

"Do you have stories too?" Newt slides down to sit against the wall; so they are face to face.

Hermann smiles, "The stars speak to us. If you are strong enough, can fly high enough- you can hear them speaking. They tell us the secrets of their magic, and we can learn it too. It is so cold up there; your fire almost goes out. There is so little air you can barley breathe, and your wings are spread so thin- just to keep you up. Nothing can survive up there, but if you can just stay up there long enough-"

He trails off, closes his eyes against a particularly loud clank from behind them.

"Have you been up there?" Newt hugs his knees.

Hermann shakes his head. "I was too young, too weak- but now-" He spreads a wing and the last two flanges cannot fully extend where they brush the ceiling. "I am strong enough. When I am confident enough to fly so high, I will go up there and learn."

"It sounds amazing. I wish I could come."

"You would freeze solid before we could get halfway." Hermann smiles, and Newt's heart _aches_ at the sight of him. Tired, so tired, but happy. Almost free. “

"It would be a shame for you to fight your way past trolls and dragons, only to fail at the last. His muzzle bumps against Newt's leg. "Look after yourself."

A lump locks in Newt's throat. He forces a smile. "You too."

Hermann turns his head and looks over his shoulder, as the last bag of gold and diamonds is gathered up. Mako looks back at him, frozen in mid stride. Hermann blinks, then rolls over to his feet, slowly getting up.

Mako draws her sword, and it looks ridiculous in her hand, in the light of Hermann's great red coils, his massive claws, the thrashing lash of his tail, the arch of his massive wings. His scales are stronger than iron, his chest a mass of diamonds. Mako must realise how pointless it is because she lowers her sword a little.

It comes up again as Hermann approaches, drawing close pace by pace until he towards over Mako, nothing but the sliver of her blade between them.

"The place is yours." Hermann says flatly. "By conquest or by apathy or by fear- I do not care. Tell whatever story you wish. I will not return."

He turns, and walks back to Newt. Mako stands her ground for a few more moments, then, slowly, lowers her sword. She picks up the last sack of the hoard, slings it over her shoulder, and disappears up the stairs.

Newt gets up. The room echoes around them. He has never seen a more desolate place. The bare cracked stones underfoot. The featureless pillars. The faint red light of Hermann's body the only illumination in this cold, grey hall.

"Are you leaving?" Newt walks to stand before him. Hermann lowers his head, and Newt touches a hand to his muzzle.

"Yes. I should have left- long ago. I should never have come." He blinks at Newt, and smiles a little. "Do not tell the dwarves that. I still have some pride."

Newt laughs unsteadily, swallows, blinks hard. Then he leans in, and puts his arms around that great, ridged head.

The heat is incredible, like hugging a stone that had been lying in a furnace. The hard edges dig into Newt's soft body. He feels the flitter of eyelids beside his arms.

When he lets go, Hermann's arms have circled around them, as though he wanted to hold him in turn.

"Thank you." Hermann said simply. "I would leave my hoard to you, but the dwarves might dispute me, and I would not pass this curse on to you."

"I don't need gold." Newt sighs. "I got what I wanted when I first walked in." He reaches into his shirt and pulls out the scale. "I'd like to keep this though."

There is silence, soft between them. "Of course you can." Hermann says finally, then snorts. "I am only sorry there are not more Hobbits around. We could do with more of you."

"The hobbits might have something to say about that." Newt barely cares what he's saying. Does not care. Just as long as he is talking, and Hermann is talking back and this moment is not ending. Not yet.

But then Hermann looks at the wall, and takes a deep breath. "You will want to stand back."

Newt is grateful for the cover of Hermann's body as he walks around him, trying to wipe his eyes and breathe through the dampness in his nose and throat, without making enough noise for Hermann to hear him.

Hermann coils himself up, and spreads his wings. He takes another, deeper breath and Newt can hear the faint clicks and pops deep within his body as the valves and sacks inflate and prepare to release.

The fire that comes is hotter even than Hermann's first display, red-yellow-white- bluewhite so bright Newt cannot look at it. He covers his eyes and the afterimages blind him. The dull grey of the hall vanishes to a stark landscape of black and white- and red.

Hermann rears; and his wings beat, fanning the heat of the flames into a roaring inferno. The ceiling cracks as the wall starts to weaken beneath the onslaught, melting red and yellow and cracking and popping under the deafening roar of dragonfire.

And finally, with a monstrous, world-ending _crack_ , the wall explodes outwards. The incredible heat of the hall is replaced with the freezing, snowbound air of the mountainside.

Hermann stops, the flames around his jaws die. His eyes are wide and he takes two steps forwards, as though hypnotized.

Outside, the stars are alive.

The wind blows into the hall, throwing snowflakes into the furthest corners of the hall. Newt tastes ice, the flakes melt before they can even land on Hermann’s hide.

Hermann keeps walking forward, and Newt follows him, shivering a little in the sudden, biting cold.

Finally, they are outside. Hermann's head, his curved neck, protrudes from the gaping hole in the mountain. His face turned up; great, green eyes locked on the distant stars.

"Hermann?" Newt's voice is small to his own ears, lost in the howl of the wind, the crack of snow and ice on molten stone.

But Hermann hears, he looks down, and smiles. "Thank you." And there is a world of impossible emotion in those words.

Then his wings open, impossibly wide, so thin Newt can see the stars through their membrane. His tail flies out, his neck arches, and he leaps aloft in a single bound.

Newt tries to follow his flight, but the red glow of his body is quickly lost in the blazing stars, the whirling snow, the icy tears blurring Newt's eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

There is almost a war. There is a very loud argument between a lot of people. Over the ownership of the mountain. The responsibility for the dragon. And the hoard. 

Especially the hoard.

Newt leaves them to figure it out. Why they would even want the wretched things is beyond him. It brought Hermann no joy, and the way they are screaming at each other-

"Hello Newton." A familiar voice cuts through his dark thoughts. Newt looks up, and manages a smile.

"I thought you wouldn't be back."

The wizard settles himself beside Newt, and crosses his hands over his golden staff. "My fellows are dealing with the Masters of the Tower. I wanted to see how you were doing."

"Ask them," Newt waves a hand to where the human ambassadors are cowering before the combined might of Mako and Raleigh.

"I asked you."

Newt pauses. "Did you know he was cursed?"

The wizard smiles behind his mask. "What curse?"”

Newt looks away; he doesn't want to explain again. "My curse. You know."

"A curse." He repeats it again. "A curse, or an illness, I would say. Did your friend tell you about the curse of the unearned hoard?"

"Yeah. He said it didn't belong to you if you didn't earn it, I didn't really get it. I don't think he did either, really.”

"Oh, he did. Every piece in a dragon's hoard is gotten separately. Every coin. Every jewel. They know every piece intimately. It is theirs from the whole to the very dust it will crumble to over the centuries. Even if someone were to take it, it would still be theirs."

"And the hoard wasn't his." Newt looks down, remembering the terrible panic attack, the terror of something so out of control, so huge and so- lost.

For a moment, they sit in silence, Mako glances at them, and smiles; her face warming for the first time since the wizard left them.

He sighs, "I came here expecting a war over the Heartstone. Strangely, no one has seen it. And my friends in the mountains told me of a great dragon that flew very close to them- close enough for them to see a very strange thing- a dragon with no weak spot. No lost scale, but a great, milk-blue stone over its heart."

He looks at Newt, who stares at the floor. There isn't anything he can say to that. "I didn't know." He says finally. It sounds pale and pathetic in his own ears.

"And perhaps it is for the best." His eyes follow Mako as she continues her argument with the elf-lords, sadly from behind his dog mask, then adds, "She needs to forget. You've seen what obsession can do to a person."

Newt smiles weakly, and looks down at his hands. "And me-"

"You needed an adventure. You needed to leave. You did not steal your home, but it isn't yours, is it? You have never felt at home there, and you fear losing even that.”

Newt looks down at his hands. He's right. But what choice has he got now? Hermann is gone. The dwarves have their home back. Where has he got to go but home- or whatever sad approximation he has instead?

Newt gets up, it's a long way home, and he'd rather start now than waste his time being miserable about it. "Thanks, Pentecost." He manages a smile

 

* * *

 

 

His wings are all but frozen, unable to beat as he slowly glides, his ears ringing with impossible song, his mind and heart aloft higher than even his wings can bear him.

He is stiff with cold as he drifts lower, the first words heavy on his tongue, dull at first, then lightening, until they spark in his mouth like fire.

His wings shrink, and for a moment his heart leaps as he falls faster, then slowing as the rest of him catches up, lighter, finer, smaller. His claws fading to tiny hooks, his scales a perfect network of miniature armor, the very jewels on his chest filed down to gorgeous sparks of light.

His rear legs touch the ground; and he flicks his tail out behind him to catch his balance, uncertain on two legs. His wings- a fraction of their true size- furl around him. He sways; holds out his forelimbs- arms now. His hands are delicate, the tiniest of scales, the finest of claws, long fingers capable of the most delicate manipulations.

He touches his face, and his muzzle is shorter, his jaw narrow, the ridges so small, his horns curling behind his head.

Həməngɒtli:b takes a tentative step, then another, his tail lifts, swaying behind him for balance. His feet are strangely sensitive in this form, he can feel the tickle of the grass, the spongy dampness as his feet sink into the dew-wet moss.

He looks up, and the stars are much further away now- but having heard their songs, he can make them out over the whisper of the wind.

He walks under the trees for the first time in hundreds of years, the new leaves just unfurling in the spring night. Without this spell, he would tower among the treetops, but like this- not much taller than a human or elf, the branches arch over his head, he brushes ferns away, steps over the white domes of mushrooms. Finds a track, winding further through the trees.

The spell is a single word. Həməngɒtli:b holds out his hand and the red spark trembles between the pinch of his claws. The shadow of his lost scale.

He hears the river before he sees it, a winding shadow illuminated by the green sparks of fireflies. His feet crunch over dry reeds, slip in soft moss, the long, waving fronds just below the surface of the river. The sweet chill of the river- the water hissing a little on contact with his burning skin.

Həməngɒtli:b opens his wings and leaps- he cannot truly fly like this, but one beat gets him high enough to glide the rest of the way.

His feet find gravel; his claws scratch groves in the rutted earth. Among the trees, some of the hillocks still glimmer with firelight, despite the late hour. He looks for a house beside the river, but the only one there is empty, cold. The inside shows signs of fire.

The little red spark flares, and Həməngɒtli:b moves on.

The house he finds is high above the river, a young apple tree sitting above and sending down roots to either side of the door. It looks newly dug, the paint on the door unchipped and fresh. When Həməngɒtli:b turns, he can see across the river valley above the tops of the trees. The stars, bright and shimmering, singing so faintly. The glowing windows look up at the sky.

He smiles, uncomfortably folds his claws into a fist, and knocks on the door.

There is nothing for a few moments. Then a soft grumbling, coming closer to the door- the click of a new key in a new lock.

The door opens.

Newt is frowning- eyes fixed somewhere on his stomach. He blinks, features falling slack in shock and eyes slowly tracking up, meeting Həməngɒtli:b’s.

He is so close. Həməngɒtli:b can see every detail of him, the softness of his face, the fullness of his mouth, the soft curls and wildness of his dark hair. Those bright green eyes, wide in surprise.

He blinks, his mouth opens to show neat even teeth. His round face begins to pull up in a broad, incredible smile. Pure joy suffusing his features and Həməngɒtli:b cannot breath for a moment- he fears the curse has somehow returned before the emotion welling inside him reveals itself as happiness. Utter and bright and licking his throat like fire- but cooler, and sweeter.

Newt gives a cry and- he is not sure how he manages to jump the three feet straight up- small, strong arms snap around his neck, the surprisingly heavy weight hits him in the chest and Həməngɒtli:b’s arms come up almost automatically to steady him.

Newt’s body is soft against his, no hard places and Həməngɒtli:b doesn’t know where to put his hands for fear he will hurt him- his claws, his scales feel too sharp and unyielding for such vulnerability.

“Oh, thank you.” Newt mumbles into his shoulder, “Thank you.”

Həməngɒtli:b shifts his weight, and wraps his wings around them, shields off the chill of the night, traps the heat of them both. He turns his head a little, until the side of his face is touching Newt’s cheek. The peach softness of the skin, the gentle warmth of his breath.

And Newt wraps his legs around Həməngɒtli:b’s waist, pulls back a little, and presses his mouth against Həməngɒtli:b’s. His lips are silky soft, he tastes and smells of woodsmoke and fallen leaves.

Həməngɒtli:b’s hand closes a little tighter, draws Newt close. Their foreheads touch, and he leans in for another kiss.


End file.
